The Rock A Bye Baby Affair
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: When THRUSH goes after UNCLE's top men with a sleep virus, it's up to Napoleon and Illya to take charge and take down the opposition - without becoming victims themselves.


Rock-A-Bye Baby Affair

Prologue

Two figures looked down upon the sleeping man. He'd awakened just moments before and wandered around the small cell for a matter of moments before collapsing again into a limp pile.

"Amazing," said one, a tall black man. "What sort of success rate have you had with this?" He absently stroked a long pencil-thin scar that ran the length of one of his cheeks, a gift from an enemy, long since dead.

"Nearly 100 percent although we did have one subject die, but an autopsy revealed that he had a rare blood disease and we aren't quite sure if it was that, the virus or a combination of the two." The other, a woman, crossed her arms, as if indifferent to the question she was anticipating. "He will now no longer have any control of his waking moments. He is completely and totally ineffective as a human being, as least in the productive sense."

"Excellent. And I take it that by my being here you are willing to permit THRUSH the exclusive use of your virus, Doctor?" Dennis Ferguson smiled down upon her, not hard, really, considering his height. He tended to loom over most people. The woman, for her part, was unaffected. At 5'1", almost everyone was taller than her, but her father used to like to remind her that good things came in small packages. Her lips curled into a beautiful smile. And bad things came in any size.

"Our usual guarantee will work for me, Mr. Ferguson, but there is one condition. I want to be the only producer for the moment. The virus stays in my possession at my laboratory or we do not do business."

"Why, Dr. Cameron, don't you trust us?"

"No farther than I can throw you, Mr. Ferguson, possibly less. If THRUSH was to get its hands on the formula, you might just decide to synthesize the virus yourself and send me on a permanent vacation to Hell. I'm willing to share, but only to a certain extent"

Ferguson laughed, a low rumble that started in his belly and crawled up from there. He studied the lab around him. It was small, but it looked competent and efficient, much like the lady herself. "This is why I find dealing with you such a pleasure Dr. Cameron. Can you manufacture the amounts that we will require?" She nodded. "Very well, I will contact THRUSH Central and tell them that we have reached an agreement and that our project will start immediately."

"And there will be no direct connection between me and them?"

"Of course, if that is your wish, dear lady."

"It is and may I ask who's to be the first victim?"

"Ah, that's not hard at all." Ferguson pulled a small photograph out of the breast pocket of his white poplin jacket. "Yes, Alexander, it's been much too long for this pound of flesh." The avuncular face of Alexander Waverly stared back at him.

Chapter One. "Did I miss something?"

At the shout, Napoleon Solo involuntarily flinched and sat further back in his seat, putting as much space between him and the flailing bamboo sticks, the _shinais_, as possible. Sometimes a ring side seat did have its disadvantages, especially when there wasn't very much protecting the spectators from the combatants, particularly when it took the form of a _shiai geiko_, a competition between two Kendo fighters.

His attention was firmly fixed upon the shorter of the two battling opponents. If the man was aware of it, however, he gave no sign as he fought to keep his opponent's shinai from sticking him. While both men wore protective armor, it offered little protection when the stick actually made contact and Napoleon found himself wincing when that happened, no matter the target.

Dr. Matsu leaned over his daughter lap to speak with Solo, "So, tell me, Mr. Solo, what do you think of the match?"

"I'm glad it's Illya out there and not me. He certainly looks like he's getting the short end of the stick, pardon the pun."

"It's true that Shins has only been defeated twice outside of Japan. It was only Mikki's ravings about Mr. Kuryakin's abilities that led me suggest a match." The Doctor watched the action with a practiced eye. "Mr. Kuryakin's style is very…loose."

"I think she might have exaggerated a little." Solo winced as Shinsu landed a blow to Illya's shoulder. Even through the body protector, the do, that had to hurt. "How do we know when it's over?"

"The game is judged upon which fighter, the _uchitachi_ or the _shidachi_, that's your Mr. Kuryakin in this case, scores the most valid cuts to his opponent and admits defeat by dropping his shinai. It shouldn't be much longer though, as they look exhausted, as does Mr. Waverly."

Puzzled, Solo glanced over at the head of UNCLE's North America office. The man's head was bent and the steady even breathing indicated that he was indeed asleep. That was odd, as Shinsu was practically on the man's lap as he struggled to keep Illya's _shinai_ parried.

"Funny, I've never known him to be one to nod off like that." Solo stored that to memory, his eye suddenly catching a movement from just beyond Waverly. He turned a little more and smiled at the supple figure of the rising woman, a tiny thing. She had been sitting next to his superior and apparently decided that the match was nearing an end as well as she was tucking her atomizer away and moving to leave. Her eye caught Solo's and he detected a slight expression of concern cross her features, but it was gone practically it appeared

Suddenly, there was a shout from the crowd, people rising to their feet, and Solo instinctively went for his gun. He checked the movement and stood to see what all the noise was about.

Sprawled out on the mat was Shinsu, leaving a heaving, sagged-shouldered Kuryakin standing. He pulled off his _man_, and dropped to his knees beside the fallen man.

Waverly stirred and blinked, confused at the crowd's noise. "My word, did I miss something?"

"While Mr. Kuryakin seems to be the victor, we will have to wait to see what the judges decide. He could still lose," Dr. Matsu advised, softly. "Shinsu is well favored and knocking out your opponent is frowned upon."

They waited for Illya as he exited off the mat and walked wearily towards them. His partner looked a bit worse for the wear, even though he was not the one being carried into the locker room by attendants

"Oh, Illya, you were magnificent." Mikki threw her arms around Illya's neck and he smiled self-consciously, while wiggling free from her embrace. He handed her his gloves and pulled off the body, groin and hip protectors, dropping each to the floor in turn. Beneath the thick pads, his white keikogi hung loosely, wet with sweat.

"I didn't think you'd do it." Solo shook his head, grinning at his partner.

"I didn't win," Illya admitted, opening the front of the robe. "I am sure that the judges will rule in his favor. My blows were all over the place and I can't understand why he went down. I didn't hit him that hard."

"But the way you executed..." Matsu began, but he was cut off by Solo's shout.

"Mr. Waverly!"

The older man, fine a previous moment, pitched forward and both UNCLE agents grabbed him to prevent a nasty fall. Gently, almost tenderly, they lowered him to the floor. Illya pulled off the robe and balled it into a pillow for Waverly's head. "What happened?" Illya knelt beside the man to check for a pulse. He found it, steady and strong.

"I don't know. He was fine. I'd better call an ambulance. Mikki, would you like to come with me?" Napoleon stood and looked around, heading in the direction of the phone booth he'd spotted on the way into the match. He grabbed the young woman's hand and led her towards the front of the building. "Mikki I'm going to need you to stay out here and watch for the ambulance. Can you do that?"

"Sure, I can do that. Is he going to be okay?"

"I hope so, my dear." Solo pulled out his communicator and spoke into it rapidly. Having a No. 1 down in any part of the world was a bad thing for their organization. The five men in charge of UNCLE kept it running like a well-oiled machine. One man down crippled its efficiency. Having alerted his own people, Solo glanced around, checking to see if anyone had a suspicious look to them but to no avail. He turned and walked back into the main room of the building and slammed to a halt.

Waverly was sitting in a chair sipping water, apparently well and safe. Rapidly, Solo closed the gap between them and placed a gentle hand upon the man's shoulder. "Sir, are you all right?"

"I believe so, Mr. Solo, but I'm highly concerned about this. I've never been one given to fainting spells."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"That was what I was attempting to do upon your return." The old man appeared shaken, fumbling with the pipe in his hands. "It was almost like being asleep, but I could hear everything that was being said. I just couldn't move. It was most peculiar."

Mikki ran up to the group, slightly breathless. "Father, the ambulance is here."

"Sir, I believe it would be a good idea..." Solo began.

"I agree, Mr. Waverly," Illya broke in. "Napoleon, why don't you go with him? I still have to 'clean up' here." Solo didn't miss the emphasis his partner placed upon clean up. Kuryakin would go over the building from top to bottom before he left tonight.

"That's a great idea, Illya. Mr. Waverly, this way please." He offered the man an elbow and after a brief moment of indecision, Waverly grasped it and stood, walking slowly, Mikki and her father bringing up the rear of the procession.

Chapter Two: "Cata-what?"

Dr. Travis DeRoy pulled off his glasses and stuffed them into his pocket. It was as good a delaying tactic as anything else he could come up with. There were some things that he tried to avoid like the plague and this was one of them. Before him, still resting in the narrow hospital bed, Alexander Waverly regarded him gravely. The man didn't get to his current position by not being able to read people.

"Is it as bad as all of that, Travis?"

"Well, Alex, to be honest, we have an interesting problem here."

"I don't want interesting problems, Travis. I have a whole desk full of them. I want normalcy.

"Are you familiar with narcolepsy?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Waverly shifted uncomfortably. The bed was hard and nothing like his own at home, where he feverously wished to be at the moment.

"It's a neurological disorder that is punctuated by sleeping fits, usually inherited," Illya Kuryakin murmured, absently, thumbing disinterestedly through a magazine, Either he or Solo had been with Waverly since the man returned to UNCLE H.Q. and been admitted to Medical for a check up.

"Simplistically put, but essentially that's correct, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.

"That's quite all right, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly nodded to him. "So, this narcolepsy, what exactly is it, Travis?"

"As he stated, it's a sleeping disorder, an imbalance of the nervous system, or so we believe. It's an irresistible urge to go to sleep. I believe you are also suffering from cataplexy, which is a loss of control, muscular and otherwise, while not losing consciousness. The two often go hand in hand. Cataplexy is usually triggered by strong emotions, laughter, excitement, or fear, that sort of thing. Possibly the excitement of the match was enough to have triggered it."

"Well, we can't have me falling asleep all over the place. We'd better get started with the treatment."

DeRoy exchanged a glance with Illya, who shrugged and returned to his magazine. He was going to let the doctor field this one all by himself.

"There is no cure, Alexander. We can attempt to keep you awake with stimulants, but that it only a stop gap in this case."

Waverly sat up straighter. "Good God, man, I can't run an organization if I'm falling asleep every five minutes..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of his predicament. "I can't do anything."

"Doctor," Illya interrupted. "Could this have been chemically induced?"

DeRoy sat on the corner of the bed and considered for a long moment. "I've got to admit it is a possibility, but I don't know how or why anyone would do it."

The Russian snorted and made a face. He'd seen all too many 'I don't know how' things come into existence at the hands of well-meaning scientists and researchers. All it took was one person or organization to exploit that thirst for knowledge. "Then that's the angle we'll work from." Illya closed the magazine and dug out his communicator. "Open Channel D. Napoleon, can you read me?"

"Channel D open." Solo's voice came back. "What's up, Illya?"

"Have you gotten that report back on Shinsu?"

"The Kendo guy? It's right here." There was the rustle of pages and Solo's voice came back on. "According to the medical reports, he's suffering from something called narcolepsy…ever heard of it?"

"Sadly, yes."

"Apparently, you didn't knock him out, he fell asleep. Damn odd time to take a nap, in my opinion. The judges ruled in your favor, by the way, since you didn't fall asleep…but that doesn't say much about your style, my friend."

"Nice, thanks. Napoleon, do you remember anything odd around the time of Mr. Waverly's first attack?"

"There was this woman."

"There always is," Illya muttered drily. "What about her?"

"Nothing, except she was the only one moving in the audience and she looked less than pleased to have caught my attention. At the time, I didn't really think too much about it."

"Did she seem familiar?"

"Yes and no. It was as though I'd seen her before, but couldn't remember where or why. How's Mr. Waverly?"

"He's apparently is also the victim of narcolepsy as well as cataplexy."

"Cata-what?" Solo's was slightly distorted by the communicator.

"It is uncontrolled sleeping spells and loss of muscular control."

"How much longer will he be confined to the hospital?"

Illya looked over at the doctor, who shrugged his shoulders.

"He can leave now, if he feels up to it," DeRoy said. "Although I would recommend having someone take him home. You are no longer permitted to drive, Alex."

"I will be taking Mr. Waverly home soon," Illya said. "Napoleon, why don't you go through the THRUSH records and see if anyone jars your memory?"

Napoleon grinned over at the auburn-haired woman as she set down an armful of files in front of him.

"Already way ahead of you, old man. Solo out."

Chapter Three: "Grave news, Mr. Solo."

"So, Mr. Waverly can't, in effect, run UNCLE?" Napoleon Solo looked up from behind his fingers at the blond Russian. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the edge of the desk. His brain felt like mush at the moment.

"He can, with a few exceptions. We've had to cancel all speaking appearances. But he should be able to carry on pretty much the same. We've alerted his secretary, so that she'll know what to look for and I've sent out a communiqué to the other No. Ones." Illya toyed with his coffee cup, watching it make rings on his much-abused desk blotter. Waverly had fallen asleep twice upon the short drive to his home. His wife showed due concern, but tackled the situation as was befitting the wife of a No. 1, with strength and resolve. Promising to call if there were any signs of trouble, Illya allowed her to take charge of his reluctant burden and headed back to H.Q.

"But he's not symptom free?" Solo's tone was questioning.

"No, he will still be prone to sleep attacks although Medical is working on a cocktail to try and keep them at a minimum during his time here. That will mean a complete crash and burn when he leaves, which is what I imagine THRUSH hopes for. Once away from here, he will be fairly useless and we know how well scheduled our lives are. I wouldn't be surprised if this is their plan for all of Section One. And Section Two after that."

"What makes you so certain that THRUSH is involved?" Solo readjusted his feet on Illya's desk to stretch.

"I'm not; it's more of a hopeful guess. If it's not, then we've done no harm. If they are, then we may just save Waverly's job for him, probably his life as well. I couldn't imagine him carrying on very long without UNCLE. He has always struck me as a man meant to work."

The overhead speaker crackled to life and Illya grudging rose to his feet.

"Must you be so pessimistic?" Solo complained. "It doesn't mean..."

"Will Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin report to Mr. Waverly's office? Repeat..."

"Yes, you were saying?" Illya smiled tiredly at him. He gestured to the door as Solo dropped his feet and stood.

They walked to Waverly's office, all casual conversation silenced by the expectation of the worst.

Waverly sat at the circular table, packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, his expression worried.

"You called for us, sir?" Napoleon waited until they were motioned to sit.

"Grave news, Mr. Solo. It would appear that now the head of UNCLE's South America office has fallen victim to the same disease."

"What did I tell you?" Illya muttered. "THRUSH."

"We did have him under surveillance. It's all on film."

"Could we get a copy of the tape? It might give us a clue."

"Agreed, Mr. Solo. I've already taken the necessary steps. The film is on its way here. It should arrive in a few hours"

"Good." Solo studied Waverly's face intently. "How do you feel, sir?"

"Fine, Mr. Solo, and that's the bother. I've never felt better in my life. Yet, I never know..." He trailed off to light his pipe. He took a few puffs and shook his head. "It's rather like living with a time bomb."

"One theory is that it can be triggered by sudden emotion," Illya reminded him.

"And we all know how routine much of this job is." He regarded his agents. "I suggest you both head home and get some sleep. You will be notified when the film arrives. Until then, I think it would be wise to keep this quiet... No use causing concern within the organization. I've advised South America to do the same."

"Yes, sir." Solo turned to go. "We'll keep in touch."

Chapter Four "I never mistake a pretty face."

Napoleon was staring at a particularly bad B film when his communicator sounded. Absently, he dug into his pocket and pulled it out. Still wincing at the contrived dialog, he twisted the top and pulled up the antenna.

"Solo here."

"Napoleon," Illya's voice was slightly distorted by the instrument. It didn't surprise the senior agent that his partner was still awake. They both had crossed the line from being sleepy to being too sleepy, that cavernous gap when nothing would help speed along that which they both so desperately needed at the moment. "Have you heard anything from Mr. Waverly yet?"

No, maybe he's asleep at the wheel, in a manner of speaking." Solo sat forward to adjust the set's volume. "Or THRUSH might have sidetracked the courier or just might not have gotten here yet. Or maybe it arrived and there was nothing of consequence on it."

"Yes, I suppose."

"Try and get some sleep. I suspect we're going to need it."

"That's my advice to you as well."

Napoleon tossed restlessly in bed, unable to find a comfortable position. Reading proved futile and television was a lost cause. He'd dozed off for a few minutes only to wake up abruptly up his senses alert and on edge. For all the effort he was wasting, he might as well get up and go to work.

He rose, showered, shaved and climbed into a fresh suit.

Walking out of the apartment building, he paused to smell the air. At this point, the city was almost quiet, the distant traffic a muted roar. He looked up at the sky, disappointed at the cloud cover and the light sprinkle of rain against his face. Tomorrow, or rather, today was going to be a grey day.

By the time he entered headquarters through the garage entrance, the mist had blown into a full scale rain storm. Somehow it suited his mood.

Still too restless to do desk work, he wandered down to the commissary and was not terribly surprised to pick out the familiar shape of his partner among the few occupants.

Illya was obviously engaged in conversation with two Section 5 techs, two women Napoleon had seen occasionally.

"Mind if I join you?" Solo grinned and sank into a vacant chair.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo." The nearest woman smiled softly at him. There was something familiar about her.

"I think good is an over-statement." Napoleon said, carefully suppressing a yawn. "And I'm not too sure about morning, except in the vaguest of interpretations. It's still pretty dark outside."

"I'm going on a coffee run. Would you like me to get you some too?"

"I would be willing to name my firstborn after you for a decent cup of coffee," Solo admitted and graced the woman with one of his best smiles. She rose and walked over to the counter.

"You, too?" Illya looked over at him questioningly, even as Solo's attention linger upon the woman

"Unfortunately and just a bit ironic if you think about it. Our boss can't stay awake and neither of us can get any sleep.. Figured I might as well be here as any place else."

"Listen, we've got to get back before that virus reproduces itself all over the lab." Napoleon's greeter set a cup of coffee before him and he sipped it thankfully. "Will I see you some time?" The question was directed at Illya.

"Some time," came the non-committal answer.

"I'll have to remember to whistle." She smiled at a private joke and led her companion away.

"Who was that?" Napoleon was all attention. "She seems familiar, but I can't quite put my finger upon where I saw her last."

"She just transferred in from the Crete office. She was a brunette when you met her last."

Conversation lapsed as Solo sipped at his coffee and Illya studied a wall with a resigned weariness.

"Nothing from the front?" Solo finally broke the silence.

"Not a word. They should have gotten it here by now."

"Maybe Mr. Waverly forgot."

"He may fall asleep on us, but I don't think it's impairing his memory. I'm, personally, leaned towards our courier being detoured."

"Possible." Napoleon toyed with the wooden stirrer.

"You want to go check?" Illya was hopeful.

The hazel eyes of his partner brightened slightly. "Why not? What do we have to lose?"

Chapter Five "Catwoman, that's it!"

They walked the familiar path to Waverly's office, hesitating before the door.

Solo didn't have a chance to announce their arrival. The door opened and a surprised Waverly stood there.

"Good lord, I'd heard that married people could anticipate each other, but I didn't know it would extend to UNCLE agents. I was just about to have my secretary contact you. We have the footage from South America."

"About time," Illya muttered as he followed his partner into the room and slid into a chair. "How did they send it? Llama express?"

Waverly either chose to ignore or didn't hear the comment. He went back to his regular spot at the table and, after they had seated themselves, he began the film.

Napoleon watched the film carefully, his eyes scanning the crowd. Suddenly, he spotted a familiar face.

"Hold it," he shouted, sending Illya involuntarily reaching for his gun. "That woman, I know her." He pointed at the screen. Waverly reversed the film frame by frame until Solo was satisfied. "She was at the Kendo match. In fact, she was sitting just on the other side of you, sir."

"Coincidence?" Illya suggested, but Solo shook his head. "Are you sure, Napoleon?"

"I never forget a pretty face and I recognize that." He pointed at the screen. "Look at what she's holding in her right hand."

"What is that?" Illya squinted at the screen as Waverly manipulated the image to enhance it.

"An atomizer, a sort of perfume squirt bottle. My mom had one just like it; that's why it stuck in my memory. I wonder if that perfume bottle plays any significant role in all of this," Solo mused, more to himself than to either of the men in the room.

"I'll run her through the THRUSH personnel we have on record and see what we might turn up," Illya offered, rising to take the photo that Waverly printed off the machine.

"Excellent. You will report directly to Mr. Solo on this affair, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Yes, sir." Illya nodded and walked quickly from the room. Now that the hunt was on, his weariness, like Solo's vanished.

It was a short walk from Waverly's office down to the file room, not a place he visited upon as a rule. Most agents steered clear of the place. Junior agents were too afraid of the stigma of being near the place and senior agents were usually too busy to do more than call down for a file. Illya was in too much of a hurry to take the traditional route.

Two women and a man all looked up at him when he walked in, the worst of the group looking like a timid rabbit ready to bolt for cover behind a desk at the mere sight of him. Like so many other employees of UNCLE, they lived in near terror of dealing directly with enforcement agents.

I need to see the THRUSH personnel files again, please Miss Ulmer," Illya spoke directly to the woman he'd been working with earlier in the evening. His fingers moved in anticipation.

"Of course, Mr. Kuryakin, we haven't even put them away yet. They're over here." She led him to a table piled with hundreds of file folders and he sighed loudly. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Yes, I am looking for a woman, a brunette, I think. Here." Illya set down the photo of the woman, studying her yet again. Her features were odd, asymmetrical

"She had some botched work done," muttered the man, lifting the photo to study it. Kuryakin glanced up at him and he traced a line on the photo. "Look you can almost see the scars and her eyes are out of whack. Whoever did this was a butcher."

"Thank you, Mr…Elliot?" At the man's smile, the Russian knew he'd guessed right. "Would we be able to trace something like that?"

"Not normally, but this is so bad, I'm betting there would be a malpractice suit on file, once we have a name to go with the face…" he tapped the photo again. "I know her from somewhere else. Let me think a minute." He sat and clasped his hands as if in prayer. "She's not THRUSH."

"But who…?" Illya started, but Miss Ulmer touched his arm and shook her head, a finger pressed against her lips.

The man was up and pacing now. "Paris, with those cats – Catwoman, that's it!" He rushed off and Illya started after him for a moment and then shifted his attention back to the woman.

"Is he all right?"

"He does this – the man is brilliant with faces, give him a minute. Would you like some coffee while you're waiting? This may take a little while. He's brilliant, but not always fast."

Napoleon was idly thumbing through a personnel file. He'd already cleared his desk of a dozen final reports and even finished off the last one in record time. It would be a nice surprise for his partner. Well known for his general dislike of paperwork, Napoleon usually managed to slide that actual part of the job onto his partner's desk. Illya grumbled, but took it in stride. The communicator suddenly chirped at him and Solo snatched it up, delighted by the reprieve.

"Illya?"

"I think we have a match, Napoleon. Thanks to the quick eyes of Mr. Elliot and his rather remarkable memory for botched plastic surgery, we've identified her as Sidney Cameron."

"Sidney? She didn't look like a Sidney to me."

"Her parents probably wanted a son. Her last known residence is Nice, France. She has been on the surveillance list for the past five years. She has suspected THRUSH ties, but nothing that we've ever been able to pin on her. She keeps coming up squeaky clean."

"What does she do for a living, Illya?"

"Apparently, nothing, although she was educated at some of the top schools in Europe and she has a PhD in chemistry. Her father was in the diamond business. She worked in a lab in Paris for awhile and then was involved in a lab accident. She had substantial plastic surgery performed on her face, but because of the chemicals she was exposed to, the results were less than perfect. She left the field and began a life of leisure after the death of her parents in '65."

"Anything else?"

"She's exceptionally fond of cats. I'll have a hard copy run of her file and bring it up to you. What's our game plan then?"

"I think we should take a flight to France. If this Dr. Cameron is as clever as she seems, she'll be logging some down time in between trips to various events. She might recognize me, but it's doubtful she'd remember you, not in the Kendo getup."

"Are all the other No. 1's safely cloistered away?"

"Yes, all are confining themselves to their headquarters. Hopefully, that will protect them enough to put a stop to this for the moment."

"At least until THRUSH decides to move against enforcement agents. They pull us from the field and we might as well just hand everything over to them."

"There's my happy pragmatist."

Chapter Six: "We'll rent you a tux."

Illya Kuryakin leaned back in the wire back chair and tried to get comfortable. Beside him Napoleon Solo noted the movement, but his eyes never left his target.

Sidney Cameron was carrying on an animated discussion with her table companion, a tall hulk of a man. He couldn't appear less interested in her conversation, his focus occasionally coming to rest on Solo before moving on again. Sidney's hands moved rapidly, occasionally jerking on the leash of a large leopard. The animal would glance over at her and then return to its dozing at her feet. Solo was willing to bet it was as docile as he was, but had been well trained to behave in public.

"Have you been made?" Illya asked more interested than his voice let on. Most of his face was hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Neither man had attempted a disguise in this case as they both wanted THRUSH to know of their interest. He sipped his espresso carefully and added more sugar to it.

"Hmmm, I think so and you as well. Too bad our faces are so familiar."

"We'll never have to worry about American Express at any rate. At least they know we're onto them."

"Which might drive them underground or force them to upgrade their plan, neither of which are really good solutions to our little problem at hand.

"Or they might just watch us watching them." Illya sat forward to sip his beer. "Waiting to see who moves next."

"Well, hopefully, we've at least threatened them enough to let us in on to their little secret."

"I'm not particularly happy about using myself as bait for this mission. And am even less happy about you being here. If something should happen, one of us should be held in reserve. We can't help UNCLE if we end up in the same boat as Mr. Waverly."

"Well, we'd never have to worry about getting enough rest if we do." Solo grinned charmingly at a passing pair of tourists.

"Somehow, that's not exactly what I had in mind for my retirement."

"Looks like our charming pair are ready to leave...and they're coming right by us."

"What a coincidence." Illya pushed his sunglasses back into place and began to study a few distant clouds. "I would suggest not breathing as they pass, just to be safe."

The two passed with little flourish and neither UNCLE agent made note of it, at least not visibly. Solo was keenly aware of each movement and when the piece of paper drifted from a gloved hand to rest against his foot, his curiosity was piqued.

He waited until they had climbed into a candy red convertible before he reached for it, but Illya's voice stopped him.

"Napoleon, don't touch that!"

"What's wrong?"

"We don't know how the drug, or whatever it is, is being passed. She was wearing gloves, so it's not impossible that it could be coating that paper."

Solo began a comeback, but thought better of it. He took out his handkerchief and carefully picked up the slip. He wrapped it with the linen and tucked it into a breast pocket.

"We can have that analyzed in the local office. Should we put a tail on them?"

"Not yet. Don't see why. We know where she lives and she doesn't seem to be avoiding us. Let's go see what we can find out." Illya finished his drink and stood.

"All right, but if this was an invitation to join her for dinner tonight..."

"We'll rent you a tux."

"Anything?" Illya watched the lab tech carefully manipulate the piece of paper. The paper itself had been held in reserve and they were working with just a small piece of it. The tech sat back and gestured to the microscope.

"See for yourself. The paper's been sprayed with something, but exactly what I don't know."

"I knew it. Analyze the chemical composition and get it back to New York. It could help them find a cure. I'm going to look for Napoleon."

"Try the steno pool. That's where I saw him last."

"Sounds par for the course. Oh, by the way, what was the note's message?"

"Um, my English is a little rusty, but something like...'meet me tonight in the gazebo and all your questions will be answered, if you're not too tired'."

"She must think us amateur to fall into her trap so easily."

"Could be her Achilles heel," suggested the tech as he pulled off a pair of rubber gloves.

"But I doubt it. Can you contact Section 4 for me? If I'm going to raid that party tonight, I'm going to need to know where I'm going."

"Sure, no problem. Anything else?"

"Yes, order a tux for Mr. Solo. He's a perfect 39."

Chapter Seven: "Convinced?"

Napoleon Solo pulled to a stop before a gate and glanced up into his rear view mirror, partially to check for a tail, and partially to make sure his hair was neat. A burly, gun-laden man approached the sedan – obviously a man who loved his work.

"State your business."

"Napoleon Solo, I have an appointment with Dr. Cameron."

The man scanned the clipboard he held in one hand. "So you do. All right, off you go. Follow the driveway up to the house and park off to the right, but not on the grass. Dr. Cameron hates it when someone parks on her grass." He waved the car through.

When he'd had driven around the bend and the car was out of the guard's line-of-vision, Solo reached behind the seat.

"All clear, old man. Are you ready to go?"

Illya Kuryakin stirred from his crouched position on the car floor.

As soon as I get some circulation back in my legs," he murmured, shifting onto the back seat and stretching. "I'll give you ten minutes before I start out."

"That should be more than adequate."

"And remember to be careful. We don't know what other forms this stuff can take. And, above all, don't let her get close to you with that perfume bottle."

"Atomizer."

"Whatever, just be careful, Napoleon. I know how distracted you get around beautiful women."

"She's hardly that, Illya." Napoleon's tone was light as he adjusted his tie.

"Napoleon, I'm serious. I'm too old to break in a new partner and I'm certainly not going to take a job reading bedtime stories to you."

Solo looked into the rear view mirror and smiled. "I know. I will be and you." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Well, into the lion's den, in a manner of speaking…she doesn't have lions, does she?"

"Not that I can tell, but it's a large estate."

Illya waited the prescribed time and eased himself out of the car, attentive, so as to not draw attention. Once clear of that he darted for the relative safety of the bushes that surrounded the villa. Crouching behind them, he paused to get his sense of direction. If the map the Nice office had provided was correct, the villa wasn't terrible large, but it would stand a good chance of being alarmed. There also seemed to be quite a number of guards around, perhaps THRUSH's contribution to the project. If that were the case, then they'd probably be of the 'shoot first, question later' variety.

Illya crawled through the shrubs and undergrowth until he was at the back of the house. Off to his left, he could see the lit gazebo and he hoped that Napoleon's luck was holding. Then, he heard the 'pop'. He was down against the ground before he decided it was a champagne cork, not a silenced gunshot. Sighing, he resumed his prowl.

After circling the house perimeter, he decided that the map had held true; there wasn't a basement. The lab would have to be underground or located somewhere else, possibly even off the grounds. Illya squatted, making a study of the immediate area when he heard the low, menacing growl and turned slowly, staring at the face of a Bengal tiger. The green eyes held him motionless as the low rumble continued.

Illya moved his hand closer to his gun. It was not silenced and would bring the THRUSH uglies down on him. Still, he wasn't about to end up as a midnight snack for a tiger either. All of a sudden, there was a sharp whistle and the tiger disappeared.

A moment later, Illya heard a voice. "Damn you, Paddy! That's the last time you'll go off chasing a rabbit with me."

Illya sunk to the ground, weak with the relief of his escape. It had been too close to have anyone even believe it had happened. He glanced over and looked as his unwitting savior, who struggled to take the tiger back to the villa.

"Hmm, using tigers as burglar alarms, what will they think up next?" he murmured. "Hello, what have we here?"

A second man, clad similarly to the gatekeeper, was heading down an overgrown path with intent too visible to be mistaken for a casual stroll in the woods. Illya looked back over his shoulder towards the gazebo. Napoleon would simply have to look out for himself.

Illya followed the guard easily, taking care not too stray too far from the barely visible path, but not to get so close he would be detected. The man came to a stop before a tumbledown tool shack. He knocked twice, then once, then twice again. The door slid back, permitting him to enter.

Cautiously, Illya approached. The dark of the night gave evidence of a trace of light beneath the door. He gave the door a wide berth and opted to sneak around a side instead. All the windows were dark, but he discovered that it to be paint. Faint glimmers escaped around the edges. Trying to peek in was an impossible task. Whatever was going on in there, they wanted it kept a secret. A full circuit of the shack provided no hints and only one visible entrance. The windows were solid with no way to open them, except to break the glass out.

Illya raised his hands to his head, sighing long and hard. This wasn't going to be as easy as he thought, but life seldom was. He needed some way to get inside that wouldn't attract attention, at least not immediately. A slight movement caught his attention and he turned to examine it, but never had the option of completing the move as a blackjack came down against his head.

The call came as they were halfway through the second bottle of champagne.

"Excuse me, dear Napoleon." Sidney Cameron smiled sweetly at him, her deep brown hair catching the soft highlights from the lanterns. "When you have a little money, you are at the world's beck and call. Only the very wealthy escape that."

She sat forward and reached for the intercom. "Yes?"

"Intruder alert."

Cameron glanced over at Solo, who hunched his shoulders innocently.

"Oh?"

"We think he was trying to break into the lab, Doctor. Paddy alerted earlier in the evening and at first we thought it was that rabbit he'd been after. Now we think it was the same guy."

"What does he know?"

"He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but we've got him in a cell with Sig and Roy. They'll let us know when he's awake."

"Very well, I'll...we'll be right up to the house." She paused, sipping the champagne. "Mr. Solo, regretfully, I believe we've found a playmate of yours."

"Regretfully?" Solo set his own glass down and smoothed out a crease in his trousers. "How so?"

"I was quite enjoying your company. It's been a long time since I've been with a man who wasn't intimidated by or captivated by my wealth. I suspect you are a man who can't be tempted by shiny promises and pretty words."

"And you haven't yet convinced me to accompany you," Napoleon said, sliding his Walther easily out of the holster and aiming at her.

She snapped her fingers and, immediately, men appeared from the shadows of the surrounding bushes. All had very lethal weapons with them.

"Convinced?"

"I always make it a point to not argue with pretty women." He let the gun drop down from its target. She smiled softly as the man was led away. She liked him, almost too much for she'd almost let slip that the virus she had engineered for THRUSH was temporary at best. No, for now it was better that it remain her little secret, all the better to keep her safe from the very men she was aiding.

Chapter Eight: "He's far tastier than me."

Illya Kuryakin glanced up at the clang of the cell door. He wasn't terribly surprised to see Solo brusquely escorted stared at his blond partner, obviously perplexed as to why the Russian would choose to perch on the cramped upper bunk of an otherwise spacious cell.

"Hello, Napoleon, fancy meeting you here." The Russian remained motionless as his partner straightened himself up, dusting off the lapels of his jacket.

Solo's tone was slightly annoyed. "I was doing just fine until we got a little call about you. You really do excel at getting caught, you know that?"

"Napoleon, before you continue on with your disciplinary diatribe, I'd like to introduce you to my room mates, Sig and Roy. I don't know which is which though I don't think it really matters Boys, this is Napoleon Solo. He's far tastier than me lot more meat on his bones. I'm all bones."

Puzzled, Napoleon looked at the corner that Illya indicated, catching his breath at the sight of two albino tigers staring at him. Gently but gingerly, he made his way across the floor and then jumped up with Illya. The movement made one of the cats stand, but he settled back down when it became apparent that the man was not doing any further moving about.

"Hi. Room for two up here?"

"But three's a crowd and four is right out." Illya pulled his legs closer as the tigers rumbled a warning at him. "As long as we stay on this side of the white line, we are supposed to be okay. As you can tell, I'm not exactly ready to test that theory."

"When you said cats, I thought you meant...you know…cats." Solo made the appropriate gestures. "Small, purring, pussy cats."

"As did I until I came face-to-face with a Bengal and then I woke up with these two breathing down my back. Actually, they are beautiful creatures."

"When they are in a cage other than your own, I agree completely" Solo said. "So, what did you find out?"

"Whatever they're producing, it's not kept in the villa. They're keeping it in a building in the woods. Code is two knocks, one, and then another two. I was trying to get inside when someone bashed me on the head." Illya shrugged his shoulders. "What about you?"

"All I got was that she might be with THRUSH, but then again, she might not be."

"If it's any consolation, we must be getting close or we'd never be in here."

"That's not terribly comforting. Nor is the prospect of possibly being kibble for a couple of over-sized cats."

"Don't worry, Napoleon. They might just kill us and not eat us."

"That's reassuring."

Six hours later found them in very much the same situation. The tigers proved to be amiable roommates as long as they stayed within the area marked with a white line. Any attempted movement beyond that brought immediate reaction from the big cats. Napoleon stared over at the windows. They were so certain of the animals that their captors didn't even bother to bar the windows. True, they were extremely narrow, but Illya should be able to squeeze through. If they could get past the tigers, escape would be as simple as merely climbing out.

He sat up and nudged a dozing Kuryakin. "Hey, Illya, wake up."

"Whaa...?" Illya came up with a start, making Sig come to his feet with a growl.

"Easy, Illya, I don't want you to end up as breakfast. Listen," Solo moved closer to the blond, dropping his voice to a whisper. "How completely did they search you?"

"Not very," Illya murmured, blinking his eyes sleepily. "Why?"

"If we could dispose of the tigers, we'd be scot free. Look at the windows."

"I didn't notice those last night. What if they're alarmed?"

"Why bother? Those two look fairly efficient, but their human handlers might not be aware of our potential," Napoleon still whispered. "Let me have your belt."

"Right." Illya pulled it off and turned the leather strap over. In the back, there was a nearly invisible slit running the length of it. He folded the material over and it opened to reveal four small darts and a blowgun.

Carefully, he picked two out and handed them to Solo.

"These are designed to take effect on impact. That's for a man, of course. For a tiger, it might take a bit longer." He loaded one dart, then the other. "Napoleon, there's only one small problem here."

"What?"

"That window. I don't mean to sound pessimistic, but I don't think you'll fit."

"Oh, I don't intend to try."

"Napoleon..."

"I'm pulling rank on you, Illya. You've got a chance to get to our Nice office and bring back an attack force. This may not be where they're manufacturing all the chemicals for that virus, but after talking with Miss Cameron, I'm willing to bet that this is the only site. She doesn't trust THRUSH any more than we do. We can't fight this by ourselves."

"Says who?"

"Says me and like it or not, I am the senior agent. Illya, please don't argue with me. I'll win and you know it."

Kuryakin opened his mouth to protest, thought for a moment and then sighed. "All right, but I still don't have to like it."

"File a report when we get back."

"Don't I always?"

Illya darted through the woods, all too conscious of the hullabaloo he'd left behind him.

Thankfully, the darts seemed to have at least slowed the tigers down. He had managed to escape from them unharmed, although his leg ached from a grazing it took from the window ledge. He kept forgetting that he wasn't as young as he used to be.

A cramp in his side was just another reminder; he slowed to a jog out of necessity. The sound of traffic from the main road was comforting. Hopefully, he'd be able to hitch a ride back into Nice without getting caught or eaten...

A shotgun blast sent him down for cover. He couldn't see where it had come from, but he wasn't going to take any more chances than he needed to. He crawled on his hands and knees through the brush.

Another, closer round blasted, rocking the immediate area. Then, something hit him, hard, in the square of his back. He went down with just the impact alone and felt the warm stickiness of blood ooze through the thin material of his black turtleneck. Surprisingly, there was no pain, except for where he banked his shin earlier. In fact, he felt pretty good. Illya reached back and yelled as his hand touched something soft and warm.

He jumped up and the duck fell to the ground. A crackle announced an approach. His shout probably attracted every THRUSH in the area. The bush parted and revealed a white-mustached, tweed-clothed gentleman. Illya was immediately struck by the oddness of the situation. He'd expect to see this in England, but in France?

"I say! Awfully good of you to find our duck."

"It was more a case of him finding me." Illya picked it up and handed it to him. "You seem strangely out of place, sir."

"Yes, the wife and I like to shake up the old routine a bit, but not too much, so every once in a while, we come over here for a bit of sport. It's amazing how much better the duck tastes here than in England. Miss the dogs, though, as it's beastly hard tracking these things." He shook the duck, sending a splatter of blood everywhere. "Once they're down that is." He stuffed it into a bag that was already dribbling blood.

A woman, to the man, appeared from another direction.

"Oh, Douglas, good show! You found it!"

"Oh no, my dear." Douglas smiled warmly at her and pointed to Illya. "He found it."

"Well, thank you, Mr...?"

"Kuryakin. Illya Kuryakin." He was suddenly aware of his rumpled state. He'd be lucky if they didn't think him a robber and turn their guns on him.

"Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin." She extended a gloved hand. "I'm Mrs. Douglas Whitherbanks."

Illya reached out and took his clean hand, bowing to her slightly. "Madame, as I was telling your husband, it found me."

It was as if they were just aware of his rumpled state.

"My word, Douglas, look what we done to this poor man's clothes! He's a mess."

"Oh, I am sorry. Are you staying some place around here?"

"In Nice, actually." Illya gave them the name of his hotel, casting a furtive eye around for any lurking THRUSH.

"You simply must permit us to drive you back there and have your clothes cleaned at our expense."

"That's not necessary. My uncle can take care of it. He owns a tailor shop in Nice."

"Then that's where we're bound." The woman smiled at him. "We insist."

Chapter Nine: "That's what happens when your reputation precedes you."

Napoleon Solo leaned back against the cement wall and stared out the tiny, barred window at the setting sun. He'd been moved from the house down into the cellar and put into a proper cell. They had also taken the opportunity to strip him down to his shorts and he was freezing in the dank, dark air of his new home.

He wondered how Illya was doing or if he was doing at all. He'd heard the shotgun blasts and heard the guards shout reports that they'd found a pool of blood and assumed he'd crawled away to die. They'd followed the trail for a mile, and then had given it up. Should they continue the search? No, Sidney Cameron had said. Go back to your assigned tasks. They were going to need a fresh batch for their next assignment in England. Solo felt a twinge of concern, for both the Section One in England and for Illya. He knew Illya wasn't that easy to kill, yet there was always the chance.

The sound of an approaching vehicle cut off that line of thinking and he peered out the window at the passing feet. Couldn't tell much of their identity from here, he decided and sat back to do some more thinking.

The restraining bolt in his cell's door slid back and Solo braced himself for whatever was to come. The door swung wide and a figure filled the space. With the light behind him, Napoleon couldn't see him very well. Then, the person proceeded in the rest of the way. Solo guessed him to be in his late 50's, but he couldn't really tell. The black man's body was in good condition, not much soft muscle that Solo could tell. Not much else was outstanding, except for the scar that ran the length of his cheek. He kept his hands stuffed into the pocket of a white lab jacket, so Napoleon guessed he was also armed.

"Mr. Solo," he spoke, a voice without infliction. "Are you comfortable?"

"Well, it's not a suite at the Palace, but I'm making due."

"That's very funny, Mr. Solo, Section 2, No.1 of UNCLE's New York office. I've been told of your sense of humor. I was also alerted that you are a womanizer, a risk taker who relies upon dumb luck and a very dangerous man, which is why I assume they took all your clothes away from you. Somehow, standing there with your knobby knees, you don't present a very threatening picture."

Solo shrugged and sat up slightly. "That's what happens when your reputation precedes you."

"I understand you tried to work your magic earlier today and sadly I'm here to report that all you ended up with a dead partner. That's too bad; I heard that Kuryakin was quite a handful himself. I was looking forward to spending a little time with him, getting to know him better, as it were, but a shot gun blast took him down."

Solo shrugged, "It happens." His mind raced at the thought that Illya might just indeed be dead, but he'd have to see the body first and then watch it being embalmed before he'd believe it. His partner was far too slippery a fish for him to believe anything else.

"The cavalier nature of that remark leads me to believe that you two aren't the close knit team I'd heard about or that you are still deluding yourself into believing that he is still somehow alive. I assure you, even if he did manage to survive that gunshot wound, the tigers are very fond of fresh prey; they'll make short work of him. But, now, Mr. Solo, I've come to escort you to the laboratory."

"You're giving me a guided tour before you kill me?"

The man chuckled, the sound close to that of growl from one of the tigers. "There's that sense of humor again. No, Mr. Solo, you are much more valuable alive. Had you not been so hasty to send your partner off into the jaws of death, you would have found that the virus that Miss Cameron developed for us is sadly flawed. Apparently, there are two viruses - a permanent and a temporary. She produced the latter for us, a fact she neglected to tell THRUSH Central. I am here to see that the virus is reproduced correctly and to take the project away from her. Outsiders are such trouble on occasion."

He gestured Solo to his feet and pulled a gun. "Now, we will proceed to the lab and see what we can do to fix our little problem."

"Well, as you mentioned earlier, I am slightly under dressed."

The man studied Solo for a moment and then pulled a small caliber handgun out of the pocket of his lab jacket. Keeping the gun trained upon the UNCLE agent, he shrugged the coat off and tossed it to Solo. "We wouldn't want you catching your death of cold before we kill you."

"I've often remarked about THRUSH's kind consideration in such matters."

He followed Solo down the overgrown path, their progress slowed by Napoleon's bare-footedness. All too soon when they arrived at the small structure Illya had described to him the previous night. The THRUSH executed the proper knock sequel and the door opened.

"Ferguson?! What are you doing here? And what the hell do you think you're doing bringing him in here?" Cameron was around the lab bench in a matter of seconds. Her attractive features were twisted by anger and, Solo detected, fear.

"As they say in the movies, my dear Sidney, the jig is up. Alexander Waverly has recovered. That was not part of the original agreement."

"That still gives you no right..."

"And this total anonymity garbage. After only two applications, you have two of UNCLE's finest down on us. Where they go, others will follow. No, Sidney, it's time to take your project away from you. You've caused THRUSH considerable trouble." He raised the gun. "You won't do that again."

Cameron was apparently prepared for something just like this. She threw a beaker at the tall black and Solo twisted out of the way. It wasn't completely enough to escape the entire impact, but that didn't slow him...immediately.

Suddenly, a wave of sleepiness washed over him. He took one more step, swayed and collapsed. Now, Napoleon could understand Waverly's perplexity. It was truly bizarre, this state of being asleep, yet aware of everything that was going on around you.

"Okay, look sharp," Cameron's voice had a brittle edge to it. "This place is going to be swarming with THRUSH in a matter of hours. Get rid of everything you can't carry."

"What about these two," a masculine voice asked.

"Put Solo in the test subject's room. He'll either wake up in time to escape or be captured by THRUSH. It's a pity, I really wanted to get to know him better. He really was sweet."

"What about this turncoat?"

"If he wants to be a turncoat, hang him up in the closet."

Wonderful, Solo thought as unseen hands lifted him. He gets a closet and I get a nice comfortable cot. And guess who THRUSH will find first?

Chapter Ten: "Alive?"

Illya Kuryakin flattened himself closer to the ground and peered at the house of Sidney Cameron with his binoculars. There was absolutely no sign of life around the place, human or animal. A soft rustle drew his attention and he momentarily tensed until he recognized the dark-clothed man crawling towards him.

"All the men are in position. Sir, one question, if I may?"

"Certainly." Illya resumed his study.

"Sir, since the virus has proven to be only temporary, why are we bothering to storm this place?"

"Because, there's a strong possibility that THRUSH already knows. Now, since they are not the forgiving sort, it's possible that they have moved in. In that case, we are up against considerable odds. If they haven't, then we must assume they aren't far behind us. In either case, we've got to get in there and secure the information before they have a chance to refine it any further."

"Glad I asked." The man's communicator beeped once. "Everyone is ready to storm the house."

"I'll take a smaller task force to the other structure I mentioned. I have a strong suspicion that that's where the lab is. You're in charge of the house, Mr. Miller. Please try to take everyone alive, if possible."

"Yes, sir."

Illya, plus a handful of UNCLE agents, stormed the lab. They were ready for trouble, but certainly didn't have any. The door to the building stood open, revealing a nearly destroyed laboratory within. "How very strange," Illya muttered, gesturing with his gun. "Spread out and search the place. His communicator broke the silence of the room and he hurried to silence it.

"Kuryakin."

"Miller here, sir. The house is completely abandoned. There doesn't appear to have been any struggle. More like they just walked off and left it."

"Any sign of Solo?"

"No, sir, but we're still looking."

"Keep me posted. Kuryakin out." He tucked the instrument away and resumed his prowling. A door caught his eye and he stepped to one side. Abruptly, he yanked it opened and aimed at whatever might be inside, then turned away, momentarily stunned and revolted.

From a hook on the inside roof, hung a man, his features distorted. Illya could tell it had been a death by suffocation and not from a broken neck.

"Well, my friend, whoever you are, you certainly aren't going to be any trouble for us today."

"Mr. Kuryakin?!" An UNCLE agent trotted up to him. "We've found Mr. Solo."

"Alive?"

"And wanting to talk with you. Also, we've gotten a report of people coming in from the highway."

"Probably a THRUSH attack force. You'd better let everyone know. I'd prefer to get this over with quickly." He took a step, and then turned back to the younger man. "And, Mr. Donaldson, remind everyone that we do take prisoners."

Epilogue

Illya Kuryakin toyed with his sweating glass, choosing to study the bikini-clad figures that trotted by out of the corner of his eye, a slight smile on his lips. Now he remembered why he liked this part of France so much. Things were so much nicer in Nice. At the sound of a throat being cleared, he refocused his attention upon the partner. While Solo had received a much smaller does than either the dead THRUSH agent, he was still having difficulties staying awake.

"So, you were saying," he urged Solo on.

Napoleon sipped his champagne and sighed, reluctant to focus his attention upon the blond as oppose to a pair of young women who were wearing an attitude and not much more. "Yes, well, it appeared that Miss Cameron pulled a switch-a-roo on them, substituting the temporary virus for the permanent one. Ferguson discovered it and tried to take the project away from her."

"And thereby hangs the tale, in a matter of speaking." Illya sipped at his own champagne. "Certainly was a pity that you had to get splashed with the stuff before it was said and done."

"Yes, but I can revel in the fact that the effects will wear off in a couple of days. And it did nab us some extra time here in Nice."

"We can be thankfully for small favors. Do you think we'll ever see Dr. Cameron again?"

"Hard to say. With her kind of money, she could disappear for years. A new name, a new face and we'd walk right by her and never know it."

Illya reached for the wine bottle and stopped in mid-gesture at the vision that was approaching them. Even he was not immune to this woman's natural endowments. "My word, Napoleon, who says there are only seven wonders in the world. Did you see her...?" He trailed off and looked over at Solo.

The dark-haired agent slumped in his chair, obviously the victim of an unwanted nap.

"Oh, those unexpected strong emotions, you have to watch out of those, my friend, but don't worry, Napoleon." Illya reached over and patted the man's shoulder. "I won't do anything you wouldn't do. I'll catch you later tonight. Oh, and I may be late."

T.H.E. E.N.D.


End file.
